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A silvery helmet with moulded wings and an arrow-shaped protrusion, protecting the centre of the forehead and the top of the bridge of the nose, emerged on the floor. Irka carefully touched the helmet. She heard a soft ringing. The moulded wings swayed and fluttered with feathers coming to life. They became thinner, longer, more airy, losing the previous powerful, slightly taut outlines. Irka understood that the helmet was adjusting to its new owner. She understood that it was waiting for her.

Feeling her fingers shaking, Irka took the helmet and put it on top of a felt liner. Her knowledge of this was sufficient. Those who wear a helmet without a liner are either owners of naturally soft heads or dashing fantasy authors, courageous heroes who pull armour over boxer shorts in the morning and, after fastening a bridle, yawning, lead the war horse, whining from impatience, to walk along the meadow, the horse already having targeted in advance a sprawling bush with its experienced violet eyes.

The arrow-shaped protrusion had barely touched the centre of Irka’s forehead and she again felt the vibrant warming heat, which arose in her at the moment when she discovered the secrets of earth and water. The familiar world cracked, exactly like the shell of an egg, the outside of which turned out to be immeasurably enormous. Consciousness proved not to be able to immediately fill this bulk.

Irka cried out. What she experienced was akin to the feeling of a man who thinks that he is alone in a dark and gloomy room with cobwebs. Everything is bad and cheerless. And suddenly, searchlights flare up and he sees that he is standing in a circus arena full of laughing people. What earlier seemed like a grey reality turned out to be a ridiculous plywood set, which can be toppled with just the push of a hand.

On feeling that hair had fallen onto her forehead, Irka impatiently cast it aside and suddenly realized that the helmet was no longer on her head. Had it come off? Nonsense, it could not be. She did not begin to search for it on the floor with her eyes. The sensation that the valkyrie’s winged helmet had remained, and would not abandon her even if she had to dive like a swallow into a waterfall, did not leave her. There are things which cannot be lost. It is only possible to betray them, after changing their purpose.

There was only one thing Irka had not yet resolved to do: check her legs. She had not tried to move them, although she felt a strange, unfamiliar tingling sensation in her feet.

“And for how long will you be afraid? Get up and walk, fool! If you can’t walk, crawl!” she thought and, after closing her eyes, attempted to twitch her big toe. She twitched and did not know whether it worked or not – so great was her fear of failure. Sweat, as cold as yesterday’s broth, poured down her face.

“Come on! Well! Are we going to lie this way and wait until Granny returns and loads us into the wheelchair? Forward! Move, dead horse!”

Angry at herself and hating the sensation of fear as such, Irka turned around, with familiar distrust stared at her legs and… Instead of being pleased, she frowned, suspecting a dirty trick.

If her legs had earlier resembled skin wrapping around skeletal bones, then these could belong to a model. Strong, smooth, tawny. With perfectly formed knees. The thighs of a runner or a dancer. The calves were muscular, but not excessively. Beautiful feet. Obedient new legs, which would obey any desire. Run, swim, or lift her to at least the ninth floor without rest. They would drive one crazy, attracting attention…

Irka suddenly wanted to cry. Throw a tantrum in the spirit of drama theatre. Throw something at the kitchen window so that it would shatter, sharp as resentment, cutting like disappointment. Something moderately heavy that before hitting the window would have time to draw a beautiful arc in the air.

She felt like a child who had jumped into a toy store without permission, picked up an expensive doll and twirled it around, knowing that now a stern voice would sound and she would have to put it back in place. “Where are you now? Do you want me to search for you everywhere? I’ll have a talk with you on the street!”

However, seconds had passed wearily, but the terrible voice still did not sound. The old dead legs also did not return.

Irka got up, staggering. She got up and was surprised that the skill of this movement was not forgotten or lost. She took a step, then another. The apartment seemed to her small, unfamiliar, and oppressive. Twice she tossed her head in alarm, until she realized what the reason was: she was afraid of hitting the ceiling. She was used to seeing the apartment from the wheelchair or the bed, and the sensation of extent remained in her as before, diminished, from the wheelchair or the bed.

Irka clenched and unclenched her fingers. They remained as before, but in reality had subtly changed. The reserve of strength she felt was not a reserve of mortal strength. Irka suddenly realized that if she should wish, she could push through the wall of the home with her hand, as if through paper. She felt the flow of blood – crimson, intoxicating, like red wine. Fresh spring forces seethed in her and exploded outside.

The memory of past incarnations and dormant magic skills overwhelmed her, but Irka forced the memory to retreat, to lay low. She felt that this knowledge was still dangerous, since it could submerge her own, as yet fragile consciousness.

Irka felt a sharp prick of curiosity. Having walked around the wheelchair, she entered the bathroom and immediately, without allowing herself new hesitation, looked in the mirror.

From the mirror splattered with toothpaste – Granny always brushed her teeth with the zeal of scouring saucepans with burnt food – a beautiful young face looked at her. Irka both recognized and did not recognize herself. Yes, this was her. But simultaneously not her. The difference between her past and present appearance was so great, as if a genius had repaired the picture of a mediocre artist. Everything remained as before – the nose, face, hair – but the girl in the mirror was different.

Irka examined herself for a long, very long time. When each feature had been imprinted in memory, she, obeying an unexpected impulse, squinted and with changed sight saw a swan and a white she-wolf. Not those that had died before her eyes on the kitchen floor, but others, her own, having subtly incorporated the features of Irka herself. And Irka understood that, at any instant on a moment’s notice, she would be able to become a swan or a wolf. However, she still hesitated, knowing that the time had not yet come.

“I’m a valkyrie! A swan maiden. A wolf!” Irka shouted in a full voice. The fear that everything could disappear had vanished. Everything was immutable.

The mirror sprayed into fragments. Some jumped in the drain, others to the floor. Irka looked guiltily at the sagging wooden frame. “Sorry, mirror! I’m simply a nitwit! I forgot that you knew me before!” she said and, after stepping over the fragments, returned to her room. On the computer monitor, which continued to live its life, new lines flared up.

Anika-voin: Hey, Rikka, answer! Did they kill you or not? Who was that bum in the kitchen?

Miu-miu: What are you, sick? How will she answer you if they smashed her for real?

Anika-voin: But I have to know when I should worry! Maybe I’m already mourning. Maybe my fingers are already flying over the keyboard?

Miu-miu: Vaporize, loser!

Anika-voin: Chill!

Irka moved the keyboard and, with only capital letters decisively typed several words and sent them away.

Rikka: I AM, BUT I AM NOT. LIFE HAS CREATED A NEW FILE!

Not waiting until her virtual buddies comprehended what was written and ran their fingers along the keys, Irka turned off the computer, and after that also the laptop. From surprise, the green light of the laptop did not go out for a long time. But, finally, it did. The illusory life had ended.

Chapter 3
THREE IS TWO WITH A SADLY DROOPING DOG’S TAIL

It was a couple of years ago. Vologda. The intoxicating March sun. The endless agony of winter. Resurrection Cathedral. The lower steps had become icy, the ice yellowish and packed, with scars from the blows of a crowbar and with frozen sand. A foolish sparrow was trying to bathe in a puddle, jumping and rolling with its chest on the thin crust.

Victor the holy fool was hanging around the Cathedral. A haggard swollen face, mossy eyebrows, beard up to the eyes, a piercing gaze. The head sitting on a slant on the neck, crooked. The neck pointed from the darned pocket of a woman’s coat to the sky. Whether he was really a holy fool or not, to get to the point, as they say, he saw everything.

Methodius in a circle of a motley gang of local children, passed by, and the holy fool suddenly hit his back with a crutch.

“What, are you nuts? What did you do that for?” Methodius shouted. He was not so much hurt as feeling spooked.

The holy fool swung the crutch again. “You’ll find out what for!” he shot back, and a juicy, puckering profanity.

Met was eleven. He was here on vacation with Zozo. Time was short, and it was necessary to blend into the new company, become one of them. One weakness, one unavenged insult and they would harass and tear him to pieces. Children are little angels only in isolation. Together, they are a flock of wolf cubs with its own laws.

At the laughter of his friends, Methodius grabbed a piece of ice.

“Hit him in the mug!” someone shouted.

But Victor the holy fool, leaning on the crutch, was looking so steadfastly, with such smoldering contempt, that Methodius’ hand seemed to wobble by accident and the ice flew near his feet, shattering with yellowish splinters…

Dreams, dreams, dreams. Everything has a flip side. Gloom takes payment for bright days with bad nights. Here a peach lies on the grass under a tree. It looks so soft, its fuzz glistens so with dew that the stomach aches with happiness and anxiety, like a sophomore on a first date, who, standing under the clock, bites off the leaves of the bouquet of tulips without noticing. But, alas, disappointment always goes arm and arm with happiness and gnaws with its canine teeth. When you lift up the peach, you discover that the bottom is already soaked and a worm is inevitably digging in the sweet rot.

It was not the first night something sticky, much more persistent than just a dream, haunted Methodius. He felt that invisible spirits – servants of Gloom – were swarming all around, that thousands of assertive eyes did not leave him for a moment. And he could not comprehend what was splashing at the bottom of these eyes – servility, fear, mockery, or expectation.

Today Methodius saw in his dream that he was being carried by a swift stream to a waterfall. In front of the waterfall were enormous black gates. In the centre of the gates were lion muzzles with bulging, embossed eyes. In the teeth were bronze rings. Methodius knew that as soon as he turned up on the other side, the gates would close and something terrible and irreversible would happen.

Methodius tried to grab and clutch at stones, frantically working with his feet, but it was useless. The terrible gates kept getting closer. On passing through them, as through water, one probably, turned black and then fell into nothing. Methodius screamed in terror and woke up. He sat on the bed and convulsively coughed nonexistent water. Then he slapped his cheek hard, and only sharp level pain convinced him that this was no longer a dream but reality.

Moscow in July stood out as clammy and sweltering. Heat during the day, pouring rain at night. It was already dawn outside. The bluish, useless light of the streetlights floated in the milky fog.

“A madhouse!” Methodius said loudly. He said it just to hear his own voice. The empty house at 13 Dmitrovka Street swallowed his words indifferently. It had heard more than that. And had seen more.

Recently, Methodius, at Ares’ request, had left Glumovich’s boarding school and moved into the Chancellery of Gloom, into a room on the top level, immediately above the office. The action of the fifth measurement did not extend to here. Whenever possible, Ares shielded Methodius from excessive magic. All around, the walls were greenish with plaster peeling, dislodged parquet, and high ceilings with water nymphs dancing around the hook of a missing chandelier.

If the size of the room could frighten, then the scantiness of furniture could surprise. An ancient high bed in the very centre and a frivolous chair on thin curved legs. On the chair was a deep basin with water, with which Methodius washed. The water in the basin never ran out. Several times, experimenting, Methodius tried to flood the office below through the holes in the floor, but it never worked out. In addition to the bed and the chair, an ancient piano, baring yellowish keys, was located in the corner. Sometimes Methodius approached it and, hitting keys at random, extracted a muffled and mysterious sound from the depths of the instrument.

The dull Tverskaya Street, the cheerful and decrepit old lady Vozdvizhenka Street, and the austere Kuznetsky Most Street sprawled very close. However, here in the room with the enormous window, with construction mesh stretched over the outside, the city was somehow not felt. Moscow had disappeared, vanished somewhere, and had become an empty and superfluous backdrop.

Methodius got up and discontentedly kicked the leg of the bed – huge, carved, and regal. Not so long ago, the faithful Mamai, smirking ominously, brought the bed from somewhere. Methodius also recalled thinking: if Mamai travels in cars which were burned out long ago, then where did this thing come from, oblivion or storage of cursed objects? For example, did Grishka Otrepiev, the False Dmitry, not sleep in it in the Kremlin until his ashes were loaded into a cannon and he was shot towards the Polish border, and they said, “Go brother, where did you come from?” However, the bed looked quite reliable. The wood was dry, the carving skillful, and the duvet soft. And the bed smelled light and pleasant. It was either a cypress or a Lebanese cedar, or some other strange and rare tree.

Methodius even pulled off the rather heavy quilt and thoroughly examined the part of the bed under it. He kept trying to understand why the plasticine khan was smirking. Yes, that was it. Several flattened bullets were lodged in the bed.

On continuing the examination of the bed, Methodius discovered a cunning protrusion, suitable as the eye of a griffin. Pressing on it, the lower part of the bed rolled out and again back into place, as if nothing had happened. Methodius recalled a popular fairy-tale plot about damsel-villains. After steaming in a bathhouse and kissing him affectionately on the mouth, the damsel would tuck the merchant into the soft quilt, and in the middle of the night, with broken arms and legs, he would suddenly turn up in a dungeon.

Just in case, Methodius plugged up the griffin’s eyes with matches, after rendering the trick lock harmless. At the same time, he understood that Gloom hardly had plans to settle scores with him this way. Ares did not like cheap stunts. Even for Ligul, this was also a bit beneath him. It is another matter that the object itself could get here, at 13 Dmitrovka Street, only having passed specific filtering in the fabric of existence.

“I wonder, what distinguished the chair?” Methodius thought, and immediately the haunting memory of the object obligingly engulfed his imagination. Here an emaciated official with a peaked face got up on the chair and carefully slipped a noose around his neck, as if putting on a necktie. Now he was standing, swaying, blinking vacantly, but all the time, there was no commitment. On the contrary, the wild desire to live suddenly seized him. He looked at the painted walls on either side, at the overshoes standing by the door, and small, mobile, active thoughts distracted him. It would be necessary to close the window so it would not blow, clean the uniform, and let the cat out to the stairs… Perhaps everything is not yet so hopeless? Having changed his mind, the official reached to remove the noose from his neck, but a thin leg of the chair suddenly gave way. Fingers clawed at the rope. A long black shadow bounced on the wall.

Methodius ran his palm along his face and looked at the chair with such hatred that it burst into flames. Fire ran down the back, licking the varnish like a child licking chocolate off ice cream. The room became smoky. It was like a stinky rat was clogged in his throat. It scraped the walls with its paws, tickling his nose with its tail.

Methodius tried to imagine the foam of a fire-extinguisher flooding the chair, and he imagined it quite vividly. However, the foam never materialized where necessary, only a raspy howl reached him from the street. Buslaev mentally apologized to the early passer-by.

The chair continued to burn.

“It’s always this way with me! All magic is only spontaneous! When needed, it breaks off!” Methodius thought angrily, trying hectically to bring down the flame with a pillow. After burning the pillow, he belatedly discovered the basin with spring water and, having mentally diagnosed himself, began to put out the flame. The fire was extinguished only when Methodius had flooded his feet and turned the room into a branch of a suburban Moscow swamp somewhere in the Taldom District.

Having finishing messing around with the chair, Methodius looked around to see if anyone had seen his infamy. There was no one in the room; however, this did not guarantee that an agent was not spying and would now tell Ares. Although, it is possible that he would also not tell. Recently, the agents had begun to be wary of Methodius, especially when Ares entrusted him with one of the seals of Gloom. Meanwhile, Methodius only used it for extension of registration, sometimes in irritation stamped directly on their plastic foreheads.

He no longer wanted to sleep. Methodius, without any special purpose, strolled around the room and, after recalling that it would be good to practise, he started searching with his eyes for the case with the sword. And he found it, however, to his surprise, not on the windowsill but in a corner of the room on the floor. Not attaching special meaning to this, Methodius opened the case and took out the sword. Suddenly something cold dripped onto his palm.

Squinting in surprise and not understanding what had appeared as a spot on his hand, Methodius approached the window. The dim morning light fell on the blade. Methodius recoiled in disgust. There was blood on the sword blade. Its brown drops appeared everywhere: on the floor of the room and on the velvet of the case. The blood should have dried long ago, but it was flowing and flowing, as if horror did not allow it to stop. It was crimson, shimmering with a myriad of tiny fires. The blood of a creature of Light appeared this way. Methodius had memorized this when Daph once injured her finger accidentally. The blood of a creature of Gloom was different: sluggish, sticky, with a greenish sheen that is on the abdomen of flies.

Methodius tossed the sword aside, dashed to the basin and quickly began to wash his hands. Although the spot was quite small, all the water in the basin was stained before his palm became clean again. However, he did not succeed in cleaning the sword as well. It seemed blood would now remain on it forever. The blade tinkled and throbbed. Methodius sensed the impatience and fury of the blade. It was like a beast, having discovered the taste of blood and wanting nothing else.

“Settle down!” Methodius said to the sword.

It was useless.

“Hit away! Kill! Blood spill! Blood like water into the ground run out! Scarlet poppy will sprout! Hit away!” the blade sang with inspiration like a maniac. Buslaev felt its small impatient trembling.

Methodius discovered that he was squeezing his hand against his will. The knuckles had become white. The fury of the blade had passed onto its owner. Buslaev suddenly wanted someone to appear beside him, someone he could knock down from shoulder to waist. Ares, Julitta, Tukhlomon – it did not matter. At this moment he would attack anyone. The single thought that cooled him down was about Daphne. It was enough for him to imagine her head with the weightless blond tails, which would not lie still and soared like wings, and his fury instantly dissipated. He understood that he would never be able to chop down Daph.

Calming the sword, which needed to vent fury, Methodius twice lowered it onto the high headboard of the bed. The blade sparkled like a young moon. He did not feel the impact, although he did not even try to pull the sword to himself, as Ares had taught him. The blade began to sing. The age-old wood fell apart easily, as if the bed was made of butter. Only when the bed, broken into three parts, spread out on the floor, did Methodius feel that he could unclench his fingers again and put the sword back into the case. He was free from the power of the blade. The carrier of death magic had let go of him.

Methodius looked at the sword, trying to determine from where the blood could have appeared. He definitely knew that no one else could take his sword. Even Ares never allowed himself the free handling of it, moving the blade only by the strength of spells. The sword of The Ancient One, having undergone many incarnations, did not tolerate strange hands.

“What if I, in delusion, under the power of black magic, hacked down someone? Although definitely not an agent! Then it wouldn’t be blood on the blade but it would be blackened with plasticine!” Methodius thought, with horror reminded of Daphne again.

He wanted to see her right away, to know that she was safe, but how? Where? He looked around the room with annoyance, regretting that there was no phone here. After all, Daph was still living at his home.

“Well, well! So far, they haven’t provided the future sovereign of Gloom with a free cellphone! But Methodius Igorevich himself can’t summon anyone telepathically! He is magically not mature! Blowing up the phone exchange is like hitting a dead fly with a slipper, but just calling – not!” Julitta taunted him sometimes.

Suddenly the Book of Chameleons, lying on the windowsill, woke up. The book cover started to rattle with an unpleasant sound. The closed and unsteady old door was knocking so when the draft hit it. Methodius’ teeth immediately started to ache depressingly.

Even without glancing into the book, Methodius understood that Ares was summoning him. The chief was impatient. A little longer and a mighty roar, after easily piercing the spectral boundary of the fifth dimension, would reach him from below. However, it was better to not lead to this. Eide did not like loud noises, especially when enraged creatures of Gloom generated them.

* * *

After getting dressed, Methodius went down to reception. He did this in an unexpected manner. In the corner, Julitta had scraped a rune with her rapier directly on the scratched parquet. It could be casually stepped on as much as desired. But it was necessary to step on it with closed eyes, stop, and utter, “Odium generis humani [hatred for the human race (Lat.)]”, and you found yourself right in reception, one-and-a-half metres from the fountain, from which the Crimean wine “Black Doctor” flowed day and night.

Succubi, frivolous folk, constantly strove to splash in the small fountain in their birthday suit, catching the sweet drops with their lips. Only after Ares’ shout did they climb out of the fountain and, leaving tracks of wine on the parquet, scurry guiltily to Julitta to prolong their registration. The treasured fountain did not only attract succubi. Somehow, Tukhlomon, playing a drowned man, blue and bloated, lay on the bottom of the fountain for the entire day and was so carried away that he passed up the eidos of Leo Ovalov, a philology theorist and author of the mystery Col and Bok and the ideological novel Three Piglets.

Methodius looked around. He saw in reception only Julitta, who, after sticking out her tongue with diligence and helping herself with its tip – in any case the tip of her tongue was moving synchronously with the pen – was sketching Essiorh’s portrait on documents. The flame of a candle was flickering wildly on her desk.

“Hey!” Methodius called.

“Yeah!” the witch responded, continuing to sketch.

“Do you hear me?” Methodius asked.

Julitta looked pensively at the drawing and touched up the line of Essiorh’s cheek, attaining absolute likeness. But to capture the resemblance was tricky, since the incompletely-drawn Essiorh was constantly turning his head and squatting.

“You hear me,” the witch acknowledged after Methodius repeated the question again.

“What do you want?” Methodius asked.

“What do you want?” the witch repeated like an echo.

“Me? Nothing!” Methodius flared up. Summon a person in the middle of the night and then forget about him, as if he came on his own initiative. This is totally in the spirit of their organization.

“Well, and nothing for me!” the witch said.

“Then I’m off!” Methodius snapped.

“Well, go!” the witch agreed and, after noticing that Methodius took a step to the rune, she said, “Oh, wait, I remember! The chief summoned you.” After giving out this information, Julitta again returned to the drawing.

“Is Ares in the office?”

“Uh-uh. He teleported somewhere about five minutes ago. He said he’ll soon be here and you’re to wait for him. That’s all! Don’t bother me! I’m drawing the ears. Hey you, the sketch, don’t twirl! I know, it’s ticklish! Ears are the most crucial part!”

“Ears are the most crucial part? Why?” Methodius was surprised.

Julitta suddenly put down the pencil and stared at him with indignation. “What are you, Buslaev, a parrot?”

“What?!”

“Then for what reason do you repeat everything after me?”

Methodius was dumbfounded. “Repeat? Me?”

“Again! Only idiots do that!” Julitta twirled a finger at her temple.

“Listen, you’re cheeky!” Methodius said with admiration.

Julitta ran her hand lovingly through her hair and made herself a little bang on the forehead, just playing Uncle Adolf.

“Well, I’m cheeky! He discovered America! I’ve always been cheeky, for your information! Cheeky and fat! On the whole, remember, applicant! Geniuses have big ears. Students who hand in exams ahead of time and genies trapped in non-sterile containers have small ears. Lab techs of technical specialties and first year biting vampires have elongated ears with deep conchae. Here I am trying to recall what ears Essiorh has in order to understand what kind of suspicious character he is! But you’re pestering me! You won’t bother me anymore?”

“No,” Methodius said concisely, afraid of repeating something again. He walked away from the witch’s desk and began to wander around reception, waiting for Ares. Suddenly Methodius caught sight of something bulky concealed under a long red cover. Here and there on the cover were traces of damp earth. Musty rot wafted from the unknown object.

“What’s this?” Methodius thought. He did not like oblong objects, on top of that even covered. The emerging association was not in favor of what was inside. “Where did this come from?” he asked.

“Ares brought it,” Julitta replied lazily.

“And went off again?”

“He stated that he needs some tool. And that you’d wait for him and not take it into your head to be off anywhere.”

“What tool?” Methodius was puzzled. The situation looked strange. Guards of Gloom usually did not need tools. In order to demolish a wall or pierce a solid twenty-metre stone well, it was enough for them to stare at it or desire it.

“Listen, Met, I’m a smart girl, of course, but not enough to answer every question that you have enough stupidity to ask,” Julitta remarked compassionately.

Methodius carefully tapped the long cover. It was a quick, almost fleeting touch, but also enough for him. With his fingers he came into contact with something deathly cold and hard like a diamond. An icy viper crept along the vessel to his elbow. His arm went numb. His temples ached. Methodius hastily withdrew his hand and took a step back.

“Ah, that’s what you are!” he said vindictively to the strange object.

Angry, Methodius wanted to decisively pull a long brush and tear away the cover, but something, more real than fear or suspicion, stopped him. He simply felt that it was not worth doing. What was inside presented a threat no less than Mamzelkina’s scythe.

The thought flickered in him to ask Julitta, but he doubted that he would receive an answer. Julitta was very busy, touching up Essiorh’s bumpy alcoholic nose. Not limiting herself to this, she drew Essiorh with fangs and about ten vampire pimples. In addition, she bestowed on him a ski cap, a homeless sporty look, and admired the result.

“Why do you do it?” Methodius asked, forgetting for the moment about the strange object hidden by the cover.

“Do what?” Julitta did not understand.

“You’re distorting Essiorh.”

Julitta pondered, after staring with surprise at the pencil in her hand. Apparently, even she herself clearly did not know why she abused Essiorh’s image. “A complex question! I want to be certain that when I need to, I’ll be able to get him out of my head just in case. Because somehow I’ve very often begun to be reminded of him recently!” the witch said, studiously depicting a dumpster next to Essiorh.

“And you think that you’ll forget him by sketching him?” Methodius was incredulously curious.

“An amateur is visible from afar! I localize the image in order to banish it from my consciousness! In order to stop loving someone, it’s useful to present him in a silly and ridiculous way. I’m working on this. I’m creating a many-sided portrait of our ‘ideal’.”

“So, how’s it turning out?”

Julitta appraised the figure and, leaning over, whispered something to it. The homeless-looking Essiorh took out a herring skeleton from the dumpster and began to chew on it with greed. After finishing with the skeleton, he wiped his lips on his sleeve, hiccupped with satisfaction, and again started to burrow in the bin. This time his attention was drawn to a cracked bottle of cologne, to which he clung immediately.